I'm tired of living backward, carping "It should have happened like this." Nobody's left who gives a crap. Not her, not me. I don't give a piss. I can't think about her face. And I shan't Think how things should have happened, but didn't. Her face wasn't exactly pretty, exactly pale. More sallow, celery yellow, stale-- Like hungry roots had sucked her blood Back into impatient earth. I loved her once, as I thought I should. I loved her in my body, in my breath. Now, I'm tired in my bones, my marrow Stuffed with regret and meat and sorrow.